The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,105
voice was—of course—one of the loudest when he joined in as Nell reached the chorus. A few of Mr. Painter’s friends harrumphed and left in a huff.
Mr. Thomas slipped away, too, shortly after, muttering something about seeing to Mr. Kitt.
Penelope resumed her seat beside Agatha on the bench. “Well, it could have been worse,” she said, grasping for any sliver of comfort.
“It’s going to get worse,” Agatha promised darkly. But all the same, she squeezed hard and didn’t let go when Penelope boldly slipped a hand over hers beneath the table.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Agatha and Penelope were sitting down to a late breakfast the next morning when they were interrupted by a knock at the door and the appearance of a very nervous Jenny. “Mr. Buckley and Mr. Painter, ma’am,” the maid said, teeth worrying her lower lip.
Mr. Painter Agatha knew—and the dour, square-faced Mr. Buckley she vaguely remembered from church at Christmas. He was clearly in charge, leading the way into the breakfast room with his jaw set and his mouth at an unhappy angle. “Pardon the intrusion, Mrs. Flood. We’re looking for Mrs. Turner, and we heard she was staying here with you.”
Mrs. Turner was in the kitchen, helping Mrs. Braintree with her distillery. There was a moment where Agatha was sure she could see the words to explain this truth arranging themselves on Penelope’s tongue.
But then the beekeeper stopped, put on a false, polite smile and said: “And what is it you want with Mrs. Turner?”
“I’m sorry to say we’ve been asked to bring her before the magistrates,” Mr. Buckley explained.
Agatha’s appetite vanished. She set her fork aside, tea and toast churning in her stomach.
Penelope, still smiling, sent her sharp little knife sailing through a piece of pound cake. “Whatever for?”
Mr. Buckley cast a nervous look at Mr. Painter, then back to the two women. “Her performance last night may have constituted a breach of the peace,” he said. “The justices are holding a special session this morning to inquire into the matter.”
“That sounds quite serious,” Penelope said sympathetically. Another few stabs of the knife. “But—pardon me for asking—what does it have to do with the two of you?”
Mr. Buckley’s dour expression doured further.
Mr. Painter puffed himself up like an irritable chicken. “We are special constables, of course. Appointed this very morning, by Mr. Oliver and Squire Theydon himself.”
“Of course you are,” Penelope said, so much honey dripping from her tones that Agatha’s own teeth ached to hear it. The blonde woman dabbed at her lip with a napkin and rose from the table. “If you gentleman will wait outside, Mrs. Turner and I will be with you shortly.”
Mr. Painter looked as though he wanted to argue this, but then Mr. Buckley seized him by the elbow. Nodding brusquely to Penelope, he towed his fellow constable outside, to wait in the lane.
Agatha waited until she heard the snick that meant Jenny had shut the door behind them. “What do we do, then?” she said to Penelope. “I take Mrs. Turner out the back and into the wood, while you stall and then eventually ‘discover’ she’s run off?”
Penelope grinned, a sunburst of a smile that made Agatha’s heart swell with joy. “I always knew you’d be a natural conspirator—but unless Nell wants otherwise, I think this is a problem we should face head-on.” Her smile turned evil at the corners. “All three of us.”
She walked down the hallway toward the kitchen, Agatha scrambling up from the table to catch up.
“She was singing the Wasp’s ballads for half the evening last night,” Agatha cautioned, balling her hands in her skirts so she could match Penelope’s determined stride. “Those have already been labeled seditious libel.”
“The printed broadsides, yes,” Penelope returned. “But singing them isn’t necessarily criminal. It all depends on how you argue the law.”
“And how do you think Mr. Oliver will argue?” Agatha returned.
Penelope’s hands clenched. “I intend to be there to find out.”
They collected Nell, who went grim at the news but who was not surprised: “Breach of the peace—that’s one of the ones they like to use against ballad sellers.” She accepted Penelope’s offer of help, and the three of them met the special constables in the lane.
Penelope walked arm in arm with Mrs. Turner, head high, an unaccustomed bonnet jammed over her curls. Mr. Painter went in front, huffing angrily into his mustache whenever the ladies behind walked too slowly for his taste.
Agatha went behind, dragging her boots in the dust.